


We meet on the uncertain sands between sleeping and awake

by goodgirlwhoshopeful



Category: Actor RPF, Aidan Turner - Fandom, British Actor RPF, Irish Actor RPF, actor x you, aidan turner x you, imagines - Fandom
Genre: Being Human - Freeform, F/M, Imagines, aidan turner imagines, cuz I hate those too, inspired by a dream I had, it's not yucky cheesy imagine I promise, my own little piece of bliss if I'm honest, poldark - Freeform, this is tasteful, turner - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-14
Updated: 2015-09-14
Packaged: 2018-04-20 19:26:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4799468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goodgirlwhoshopeful/pseuds/goodgirlwhoshopeful
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is an imagines inspired by a dream I had, in which I woke up but desperately tried to fall back to sleep to keep living it, because I suddenly knew what bliss felt like.</p><p>Imagine you and Aidan, just being together, attending a wedding...</p>
            </blockquote>





	We meet on the uncertain sands between sleeping and awake

**Author's Note:**

> I usually am not an 'Imagines' fan, but I tried to make this as neutral and non-yucky as possible. 
> 
> Also tried to do Aidan justice...... not sure that's ever possible though. 
> 
> Please feel free to comment. I'd love to know what you guys think – even if you hate it!:)
> 
> (The quote & the title are from a song I'm writing - come say hello if you like - goodgirlwhoshopeful.tumblr.com) xxx

* * *

_"I hold onto sleep because_  
_ it's where you and I have a place._  
  
_ We meet on the uncertain sands  
between sleeping and awake,_

 _until reality's tide_ _arrives_ _with the day  
and washes it all away."_

* * *

 

The long and short of it is, his eyes are kind.

They smile even when his mouth is a hard line, or when his brows are furrowed with his trademark intensity, the kind that makes it look like, at a distance, that he wants to take on all the world. 

When, in fact, this is usually just his listening face, or his ‘My attention is entirely on you’ face, or his ‘I really agree with you’ face… Though, sometimes, on demand, it _is_ in fact an ‘I’m being intense and broody’ face, but that is usually whenever a large, black lens was not two foot from it.

He is an actor, after all. 

When you sleep, they’re still there – the kind hazel eyes, that is. They sparkle with his trademark cheeky mirth and Irish charm on an almost continuous basis, and, while you’d never say so aloud… they’ve come to feel like home. 

It’s your parents wedding – well, your mother and her new partner – and you can’t help but consider what your young, fifteen year old self would have said all those years ago, if she’d known that such a momentous family event would arise one day…and _she_ would be here with the likes of this man. 

You know your younger sister sniggers still about it – mostly because she knows you have loved him long before he even knew you – but you know this is mostly down to jealousy, because, were the roles reversed, the word _jealousy_ wouldn’t even cover how you would feel.

Sad thing is, you understand her bitterness… because no one would have expected the roles to be this way.

A man as beautiful as this, by prediction, had always gone for your younger sibling, not you. Your friends say that simply shows how your time was just long overdue, so you gifted with twice the luck she ever had with boys when you were both younger…  You can’t help but doubt it… because part of you feels as though one day you might wake up and he’ll realise what he _could_ have instead of you.

As a bridesmaid, you’re dressed in blue, to match the immaculate colour scheme. He matches you, by choice more than anything else, but also because your mother’s fiancé had been so impressed that a man finally took you on, he virtually invited him into the groom’s entourage. 

At thirty four, he is not as close to your step-father’s age as he is to yours. Though, predictably, people snigger most about it – as you are the ‘tender’ age of twenty-two – as though your ability to love is defined by the number of years you have lived. They don’t know what you know, however – that waiting for love your entire life can make you incredibly mature in the way you view it, the way you handle it… 

You’re late, so you find yourself running down hill that resides just ahead of the sweet French village church, hurrying to make it there before the bride  – you _mother_ – d oes. 

Ever an anchoring force, you feel his hand grasping your waist when you almost fall, _more than once –_ while also carrying your heeled shoes in his fingers. You try not to be distracted by the the way you can feel warm of his fingers, even through the satin of your dress.

“ _Aid!”_ Your exclamation is dwarfed by the warm wind as it carries the words away. _“Hurry!”_

While it should be a serious affair, the two of you find you are laughing; giggling like school children, as you attempt to make it down the hill without falling and therefore ruining your expensive wedding attire. 

As you make it to the bottom, thankfully unstained, you turn to find his eyes are smiling in a whole different way – they dance and shine, as though almost omitting their own light source. 

In such moments you know how it is that someone so implausible – such a worldly, experienced, older man – loves _you_ – a homebody from the-middle-of-nowhere, England. In such moments, the years melt away; his body and mind may be over thirty, but is soul had the vibrancy and playfulness of a child flying a kite of a sunny day. 

Then, just like that, the childish glee transforms into something entirely different.

“You are – ” His voice is husky, audibly now as he steps until there is but a foot between you. “ – so fuckin’beautiful.” His Irish lilt carries the same level of comfort to you now as a lullaby you’ve known your whole life, but when he said words like these, it somehow also turned to gasoline and began stoking the fire. The infamous intensity is back between his brows, but, miraculously, his eyes still dance. Within a moment, the smile is back on his lips, too, lifting into a crooked grin that favourited the left side more than the right. 

His almost-black hair, which is short now, having needed to be so far a role, curled in frizz around his head – the wax he’d combed through in an attempt to tame the curls little match for this summer breeze – your favourite errant curl finding its way out of line as it hangs just onto his forehead. 

You can’t decide in that moment what you love about him most. 

“Speak for yourself,” you say with humour, gathering his large hands in yours as you pull towards the church. 

“ _Gods sake,_ will ‘ya _ever_ just take a compliment?” The question is without malice, as a recurring joke, as his hand finds out hip curls around it protectively, making sure you don’t fall in the last ten feet before the church. 

You stop just short of the door, a smooth stone path now under your feet, and take a moment to admire him. _He should always wear a suit,_ you decide. “The day _you_ will, _I_ will,” you murmur tenderly, smoothing your thumb over his thick right eyebrow, before tracing his temple with your knuckles. 

At that, his eyes reward you with increasing warmth and severity. 

“Best put ‘ya shoes on,” he says with a nudge, his tone deliberately a reminder. _It’s your mother’s wedding. Focus._ You walk to the bench beside the entrance and do so, your hands shaking so awfully with adrenaline and nerves that his larger ones brush them away and do it for you. As he squats to do so, he smirks at you, his eyes chastising you like a judgemental mother hen, but you know he’s just joking. “Cahn’t even put ya’ shoes on,” is what he says next, because he loves to tease you, barely flinching at you pretend to then kick him in the shoulder for it. His hands smooth over your delicate ankles as he finishes buckling the small straps, as though he’s dragging out the time he can spend touching you. 

You return the favour, leaning forward to kiss his head. As you go to pull away and stand, he holds you against him just a moment longer. 

He even accompanies you down the aisle, once the time comes. His bicep is modest in size in comparison to how he sometimes was – naturally he was more slight than what his roles sometimes demanded – but hard and strong under your hand, informing how safe you feel with him beside you. 

The service is beautiful, but you realise too late, that, rather selfishly, it’s not feeling beautiful for the reasons it should be. You sit at the far end of the front pew, surrounded by the scent of fresh flowers, candles, and… _Aidan._ His aftershave wafts up your nostrils every time he so much as shifted in his seat; his foot bumping your own where it was crossed over his leg. Everything about him makes you hyper aware, unable to focus on anything else.

With him by your side, you forget about the service, and instead find yourself studying his profile as _he_ watched the service. The ever-present two o’clock shadow on his jaw hadn’t been shaved – ( _“I can’t go to a wedding lookin’ like I fell right out of The fuckin’ Hobbit, darl’––”) –_ though, that was only because you had persuaded him not to. Though it did scratch and chaff when you kissed, you loved the way the burn of it would remain for hours after. Without it as a reminder, you are sure you’d think you dreamed it. 

His hand rests on your leg, above your knee, and after a while you find yourself staring at it. You slide your hand into it, and he accepts you without hesitation, your fingers, not so different in length, become laced together. 

Lifting your eyes, you find he’s watching you now, his mouth neutral while he eyes do all the talking. Suddenly, the gravity of the event catches up to you –– _He came to your family event with you, he’s braving all their questions, their stares_ for you –– and you swallow back tears, instead simply laying your face against his throat, your head fitting without hindrance under his jaw, against his collarbone. 

He presses a kiss to your forehead a moment later, another to your hair, and you know he feels it too.

As you watch your mother kiss her new husband, everyone claps and cheers, standing to applaud. 

You don’t know why you say it then, but “I love you,” slips from your lips, almost in a panicked away, as urgency fills your cells. _He needs to know this, feel this, now._ He holds you tight, your embrace not ceasing since he could you staring halfway though. 

You’d said it before, so had he, but also in much more casual circumstances – always a _‘I have to go now - Love you - see you tonight,’_ or a _‘Oh, I love you, idiot,’_ – but never quite like this. 

The words are a murmur, since you’re close to his ear when you life your head. All those around were cheering. The moment was for the two of you alone; a delicate, magical bubble.

He says something you don’t quite catch, before adding, “Ah, y’not getting all _mushy_ on me now are ya’?” You almost hit him, but his tone is his usual sarcastic, silly self, so instead you just feel your skin flush. When he presses his lips against your head the next moment, you realise _that_ was his reply, before the moment passes. 

You almost ask him to repeat himself, but then his eyes meet yours, and they say it all for him. 

“Thank god, it’s food time,” he murmurs into your ear as you go to leave. “I’m _starved_.” 

Something about words like that in his accent make you laugh. It’s as though they’re the kind of words he was born to say.

You say, you too, and watch with your heart in your mouth as his eyes crease and almost close as he laughs with his head thrown back.

“You’re telling _me!”_ he exclaims. “I thought there was an earthquake outside your stomach was making so much noise!”

Again, you flush and hit him. He most definitely makes sport out of teasing you. “ _What?!_ I didn’t notice,” you say, completely surprised. 

Aidan just smirks as you walk back out into the warm air. “I wonder why,” he says, and you close your eyes in guilt and shame. _Rumbled._ He, however, is laughing.

“Darling!” Your mother comes to you, pulling you into the crowds of people and away from him, and you smile at her, brilliantly happy to see that she’s happy. As you’re dragged away, you turn back almost in panic as you leave his side, having grown so used to his touch almost being but a few paces away. 

You catch him in a picture-perfect moment, the sun capturing his dark curls as the wind danced with them around him head, his lean body primed by his dark tailored suit… and realise that he too is gazing at you. He grins at your grandmother as she hobbles past, helping her down the step with open arms, exchanging what is, no doubt, their usual caliber of inappropriate jokes – an Irishman and a vivacious grandmother with a rotten sense of humour were the most deadly combination.

Because that was the _real_ tether, if you were honest with yourself, wasn’t it? He may have a face and a voice like something out of every woman’s fantasises, but everything else about him exuded something of much greater importance. After all, physical beauty would fade, but his internal magnetism… Well, that would only intensify. 

With his features lit up with scarlet hues of the setting sun, you suddenly struggle to breath at the sight of him. Despite his external beauty, there was always something else, something _spiritual_ about him. 

 

The long and short of it is, his eyes are kind... and, while you’d never say so aloud… they’ve come to feel like home. 

 

FIN


End file.
